Memoirs of an Angel
by Poisonous Poppy
Summary: The story ends another way, and when Christine dies Erik decides to tell it. EC,but hopefully not too cliched. Please R
1. His Angel was Called Back to Heaven

**disclaimer: I'm not Gaston Leroux and therefore and own no part of POTO except the plot of this particular 'phan' fiction.**

**authorette's note: **This fic is based on both the 2004 Andrew Lloyd Webber film and the Gaston Leroux novel. The events here taken place in at the end of 1869, during 1870 and beyond! In this story Christine was born in 18 53 and Erik was born in 1841, ( sorry Leroux purists but for this story I felt Erik needed to be a bit younger!). I want to try and keep this fic historically accurate, so please tell me if you spot any terrible mistakes! Thanks! Incidentally, this story is told in Erik's narrative and though it may seem a little slow at first please bear with it. Hope you all enjoy my fic, it's my first so I'm a little nervous! Please read and review, constructive criticism is cool, but random ranting is just plain lame!

**Chapter One- His Angel Was Called Back to Heaven**

1917, 27th June

Silence. That's all I can hear, stillness and silence everywhere. There's no laughing in the parlour, no running in the corridors, no chatter in the kitchen, no singing in the drawing room, no clattering of plates in the dinning room, no noise or signs of life anywhere. Even the birds have stopped chirping, despite the beautiful weather that today has brought with it. I suppose they know what has happened and are marking their respects in their own way. I'm a great believer in animal's intuition and I'm quite confident in the fact that they can tell that their special human friend, the one who kept the bird table stocked through winter and always looked out for their safety is now quite gone.

I want to call out to the birds, call out to them and tell them that they aren't to worry , for as long as I'm alive I will continue to look out for them as their special friend used to. She'd have wanted that and I must see to everything she would have desired of me, and more.

It's strange, after all that's happened in the last few days I feel quite tranquil and mellow. I'm neither angry nor outrageously distraught although I know that should be. I've been trying to cry, to shout or call out to God in despair; but all I can do is sit down in my chair, at my desk and stare blankly into space.

The children say that I'm in shock and that my emotions will gradually begin to surface but I don't believe that they will. I think that deep in my heart I'm almost happy that she's gone. Simply because now I know that she will be a real angel in heaven and will no longer will I have to see her confined to her bed and shut up like a prisoner in that little room at the end of the corridor, pale as a ghost and in unbearable pain. It's all over and now she can at last be free of all mortal pain and strife.

I must admit that I've been tempted to join her in the afterlife since I awoke and found that she'd gone there, I even took the poker from the fire in my study and placed on my stomach, quite prepared to stab myself. But I stopped. I picked up the cold metal instrument and put it back where I'd found it. I sat down in my chair and shook my head. 'No', I said to myself in a firm voice. She wouldn't have wanted you to do that. She'd have wanted you to join her only when nature intended you to. She'd have wanted you to support the children and the grandchildren, to look after the cats, to ensure that all her affairs are taken care of and she'd do as she'd requested of you, sing her requiem at her funeral.

So I continued to sit in the green leather chair, by my desk in my study. Apparently I sat there for hours without moving, just starring at the wall, I personally wouldn't know. Time seems to be passing by without me noticing. Little Charlie, though he's hardly little anymore came to me this morning to invite me downstairs for breakfast. He informed me that I'd been sitting in the exact same spot for the last fourteen hours and do you know what? Had you asked me I'd have said that barely fourteen minutes had passed since I first sat down. The children have said that my inability to judge spans of time is due to shock but I simply put it down to old age.

I have left my study today. I washed, shaved off the few, sparse hairs that sprout on my chin, changed and wiped any marks off my mask, only to realise that my white mask wasn't quite appropriate for the occasion so I replaced it with my black one. I then had a small breakfast with little Charlie and his older sister. Oddly, the pair seemed most perplexed when I began to talk of the weather and current affairs and they said in a most sombre manner that it was quite acceptable for me to discuss my emotions. To this I replied that I found my toast most dry. I helped tidy the breakfast things and after telling everybody present for the sixth time that I was quite alright and had no feeling or thoughts to discuss, I went back to my study and sat.

It was later in the day when I heard a knock on my door and footsteps approaching my desk. It was Charlie, who had come to inform me that his other siblings had arrived and that I might want to greet them. But I simply shook my head, I thought it better that they had some time alone to think about their mother. Charlie nodded and quietly left the room only to return a few moments later. "Father", he said softly. He approached me and gasped my hand in his. It was hard and dry, the opposite to his mother's. "Father", he continued. "I noticed that you are wearing your mask in the house. Why are you wearing it? You know mother hated to see you covering yourself when it wasn't necessary."

I said nothing to this, I knew full well that I never usually wore my mask amongst family, and I had no reason for wearing it now. But I cared not, it was my face, surely I was allowed to cover it whenever I desired? Charlie respected my silence and after a long pause said in a hushed tone of reverence, "Father, I want you to know that me and everyone else in this family loves you very much and that you are most welcome to join us and talk to us at any time. I understand how hard this is for you, you loved mother very much."

I swallowed. Although I was thankful for his sympathies, I couldn't help feeling that he was treating me as if I were a five year old that needed to have it's had held and tears wiped away. "Charlie, thank you for inviting me downstairs but I'm quite happy where I am, I will join you when I see fit. I appreciate your kind words but I'd rather you talked to your brothers and sisters than to me, and as for your mother," I stopped, I knew what I wanted to say but the words were stuck in my throat. I swallowed again and continued, 'as for your mother, I loved her with all my heart.' With that Charlie nodded and silently left and I was on my own.

That's when I began to write. I placed a sheet of paper in front of myself and picked up my pen, the one my angel had inscribed for me for my sixtieth birthday and began to write. Random words flowed from my pen and I began to remember. Remember all that we'd been through, my angel and I. All that we'd seen, and shared and endured. Our story, our remarkable tale that was ours and ours alone and I realised that it was my duty and mine alone to record it so that the world would be able to know it. So with that I took a deep breath and began to write.

**authorette's note: Next chapter we travel back in time and the story begins! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and please, please, please review! **


	2. The Ghost Was Resurrected

**authorette's note: **I'd like to thank all those funkier than groovy people who've given me such great reviews, I love to get feedback from my work, (positive or otherwise!)! Secondly, I want you to ignore the any references in the previous 'authorette's note' about 1869, the action takes place in 1870! Which brings me on to this chapter. I've dated the Masquerade as being on the 31st of October, and in case you were wondering, in this fic, Erik has the Leroux 'full corpse face' deformity, rather than the ALW 'bad sunburn'! However, the events here are mainly ALW film based, with perhaps a few additions of my own! Anyway, enjoy and please review!

**The Ghost Was Resurrected **

1870, October 31st

My mind was in a state of disarray and madness. In was clouded by the two most powerful emotions that exist, immense hate and immense love. I loved Christine with all my soul, with all my being and more than loving her; I was obsessed by her. When I drew, I drew only of her, I would spend hours ensuring that all my pictures of her were as perfect as she was. When I composed it was her and my adoration of her that was my artist muse. Or at least that had always been the case until three months ago when a new emotion came into play. Hate

It happened on that night, that heart wrenching night when I saw my beautiful angel and that, that idiotic fool who new nothing of arts but how much they were worth, together on the rooftop of the opera house. Of course, any man would have been smitten with my Christine as soon as they saw her, her beauty excelled that of all others, and then of course there was her voice. As soon as she sang her debut I saw the eyes of that buffoon become clouded over with adoration. It was like a spell was cast over him and from that moment he pursued the one which until then had been in a strange sense, mine.

My young 'bella diva' tried her hardest to resist all his romantic advances towards her from that childhood play friend who insisted on visiting her, and bestowing her with lavish gifts when she refused to see him. However, the fact was that to her young eyes, he was a hero that had come from a distant land of light to rescue her from darkness and the creature who kept her cloaked in it. She'd already forgotten me as her angel of music, the figure that she admired, respected and maybe even loved the most. I used to enchant her and capture her imagination with my voice. She used to dream about meeting me in person you know. I suppose her visit to me has now become the subject of her nightmares.

I tried so hard to prove to her that I was still her angel. I sent countless notes to those two bumbling imbeciles that run my theatre that gently persuaded them that it would be better for everyone's health if Miss Dáae played the countess in the new production of Il Muto. They originally intended to comply but when that ridiculous goose in a frock threatened to leave for good, ( which I believe she has tried to do countless times before,) they changed their minds. So, of course I had to give them a little reminder of why it's better to agree with the ghost's demands, in the form of a sound. A sound like, I don't know; **_co-ack _**perhaps?

After a little breath spray replacement and ventriloquism I intended to find a spot, since that dandy of a patron had taken my box, and then watch my rising star enjoy her moment in the limelight. However I had been followed by a particularly beastly opera worker named Buquet. I would have been quite happy to let this incident pass and carry on as normal but he insisted in proceeding to anger me. Not that it was the first time, I had heard him giving his little speeches on my ugliness to all the chorus girls and cheap whores that my poor Christine had been forced to live with. I will remind you that at that time in my life I saw very little wrong in murder, and besides, as they say in Indian philosophy, 'everyone gets what they deserve'...

So I killed the man, strangled him and tried to tie his lifeless body to one of the rafters and hoped that it would remain undiscovered until the end of tonight's performance. But then something disastrous happened. The body slipped, the rope came undone and the corpse fell from the rafter, to be dangled above the stage like a prize meat by my Punjab lasso. That was my big mistake and that directly lead to the events that followed and the plan that I had conjured up to win back **_my _**star, **_my _**angel, **_my _**love. **_My _**Christine.

In a moment of impulse, I set about gathering months worth of supplies, which for a creature with a small an appetite as me, isn't much. Then I shut myself away in my little 'lakeside manor' with the intention to finish my life's work; my Don Juan Triumphant. It then began. Three long months of solitude that allowed me to create, if I say so my self, one of the most magnificent operas what this world has ever seen. It was a deep, sensual, almost lustful ( but tasteful) tale inspired by those two dreadful emotions, love and hate. I soon discovered that the pair combined spectacularly to create the emotion that was the very essence of Don Juan Triumphant. Passion.

It was as I worked that my grudges and resentments began to fester deep in my soul and the sight of Christine and that, that dreadful boy together on the roof of my opera house kept playing over and over in my head until I was physically sick. That's when a came up with the second phase of my plan.

Being a man of impulse I'd been writing my masterpiece with out a single proper thought as to what was to be done with it when it had been completed, but one night as I attempted to get some rest it came to me like a vision and I knew what I had to do. The only question was, when? I had some choice words to give to not only those two incompetent fools who manage my opera house but La 'ridiculous sow' Carlotta, that fat, pitiful excuse for a tenor Piangi and of course Christine. But the question was where could I be certain that I'd have all of them, plus various other important figures of the opera house and perhaps a few high status members of Parisian society in the same place at the same time. I pondered this for a few minutes and then my eyes fell on my mask that lay on the organ bench beside me and the answer flew into my mind. The masquerade.

Ah yes that ridiculous affair where guests attended an otherwise rather dull party wearing a pitiful excuse for a mask and pretending to be unrecognisable by everyone else. I rather resented public festivities being held in my opera house but I quickly realised that this would be the perfect opportunity to present Don Juan Triumphant and naturally, wish everyone good tidings for the New Year...

I'd already nearly finished my opera and now all I had to work on was my costume. It needed to be festive, ( after all this was my official musical debut was it not!) yet at the same time needed to give me a essence of menace, whilst maintaining my mystique as the infamous Phantom of the Opera. It had to show that I was powerful, that I was to be respected and that I was a thousand times greater than that ridiculous clown who had dragged my angel away from me.

I became quite caught up in designing my costume, until I remembered something that I felt was quite important. The fact was, even if I wore the most fashionable suit in Paris, as long as I was cursed with my hideous face, no garment in the world would make people respect me. I swore with frustration. I cursed my face, my wretched, monstrous, face. This disgusting, rotten mound that I carried on my shoulders was the sole reason that I remained a cold, untouched, hated, feared, creature that was so repulsive that the world rejected it and flung it down to hell. I was a genius. I was of superior intelligence to any professor or scholar. I was one of the greatest architects and artists to ever grace France. Most of all I sang like no creature on this earth. Christine had once believed that I was an Angel of Music, and on occasions I ever wondered if I really was just that.

However, the fact remained that so long as I remained such a corpse as I was, I would always be confined in this cold, unfeeling pit of never ending despair, awaiting my descent to hell. I suppose you could say that my life was a form of death . Then like a blow from my poor unhappy mother, an idea hit me; and Red Death was born.

It was quarter past ten exactly when I left my dwelling to join the party. Everything was ready. The trap door was prepared, I'd create and donned my Red Death suit and ignoring the temptation to complete my outfit by going, 'bare faced' I'd placed my cold, white, porcelain cage over my repulsive excuse for a face. The plan was set and now it was time for the Opera Ghost to be resurrected and claim back what was rightfully his.

**author's note: I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please review! Sorry if I don't update really often, but I'll do my best! Thanks x-x-x-x-PoisonousPoppy-x-x-x-x**


	3. The Chains Were Broken

**authorette's note: **Once again, thanks for the shiny-glossy reviews and I hope all you shiny-glossy readers enjoy this chapter, and please review! This chapter is depicated to Stephy - for giving me inspiring thoughts to think through whilst my arms are covered in suds! The 'vestal virgins' later mentioned are lamppost statues outside The Opera Garnier in Paris. Basically, they're green, naked chicks who've managed to cover their 'modesty' with some cloth and carry a lamp on their heads. No wonder Erik chose to reside there….

* * *

**The Chains Were Broken**

1870, December 31st

I had to admit, the festivities were quite impressive, considering the intellectual capacities of those who were planning it. Metallic decorations of the most lavish nature filled the grand foyer, reflected the blinding light of the thousands of candles that were dotted around on solid gold candelabras. The floor was covered with some of the most powerful men in Paris, complete with a trophy wife dressed up like a doll in a laughable frock that were centauries too young for her, on each one's arm. They strolled around mingling and making futile small talk with each other whilst silently praying that their wine glasses would soon be refilled with something more expensive and hopefully much stronger…

I sighed one of my lamenting sighs. Oh, how ironic it was that while I cursed this mask that the world and it's cruel inhabitants constantly forced to wear, these so-called, 'fashionable Parisians' rejoiced in covering their faces for an evening. But then I suppose that they were safe in the knowledge that under their little porcelain covering, lay a perfectly normal expanse of cool, peachy skin; smooth and soft. I dare say that if I had looked at my naked face in the mirror, it would have been cabbage green with envy.

But enough of my foolish day dreams, I had a task that needed to be completed and that was what I must focus my attention on. I tried as hard as I could to spot my Christine and when I did I could have sworn that I felt my repulsive jaw drop. She looked simply exquisite, oh my, I had almost forgotten how utterly divine was. She truly did resemble an angel to a visit to our humble planet. Her long hair was worn in a simple, but elegant style and the natural beauty of her face was aided only by a little, shimmery eye make-up and a dap of pale pink lipstick.

Next came her dress, a sugary pink, satin affair, trimmed with white lace and a few miniature silk roses. The top half had obviously been designed to emphasise her more, how should I say, 'feminine' features, and as a man I could most definitely vouch it's affectivity! It's bottom half was layered and puffed outwards from the waist until it reached the polished marble floor. This pleased me, at least that foolish dandy wouldn't be able to dance to closely to her. But what was that around her gentle neck? Just as I was trying to make out it's shape, one Gaston Pertion, a depressingly wealthy businessman who'd made his vast fortunate out of exploiting poor workers in the coal mines of Calais, went over to talk to Christine, and blocked her out of my direct line of view.

I knew plenty enough about Mousier Pertion for me to just cause to distrust him. He was famous for the variety of women who'd been in his well-worn bed, though why they ever went there is beyond me. He was, as far as I could see, an old, ugly ( though I can hardly comment), lecherous drunk who was not only married, but maintained a hardly discreet mistress, some young, amply busted thing who'd once danced in one of the many brothels of Montmartre. But then of the other hand, none of these things matter when someone is rich enough to keep you in velvet and diamonds for the few weeks that he will display any lustful interests in you.

I could tell by the way he moved that he had only approached my divine angel with the intention of bedding her, as he had most of the other chorus girls, but I knew Christine was too wise to fall for his sweet nothings and soft kisses on her hand. For you see, unlike nearly all of the other Parisian girls involved in any form of entertainment, Christine was a good, sweet, moral creature who would always be faithful to the one she loved, who was, most unfortunately, Raoul du Chagny. But, our dear Gaston wasn't the sort of man who gave up easily and despite being continually being given a polite, but cold shoulder, he began on his usual speech. Being a ghost, I have ears like one. In short, when I put my mind to it, I can hear anything. Even Pertion's predictable lines, "Oh you are as beautiful as those vestal virgins outside the Opera House." "Such an exquisite beauty, such a shame you are appreciated so little." "What a magnificent dress, it only amplifies your exquisite form." Each line, accompanied by a touch on the arm and curled grin.

Yet Christine kept up her calm facade, even though I could tell that she was internally disgusted and felt thoroughly degraded. Although she loved to perform, I knew that she was a shrinking violet that, though she enjoyed praise hated attention and unwanted interactions. She was unused to men paying her so many compliments whilst they allowed their gazes to fall far too low. Christine's almost vestal virtue, something practically extinct at the Opera House, was what made her so special. She didn't allow herself to become an elevated whore, like so many other diva's before her, and yet still those wealthy, influential and lustful beings still chased after her. Perhaps it was her angelic purity that made her so appealing? With so many 'women of the world' around, an intact flower can be a rare thing in Paris. I cursed myself for not being there to protect her for the last three months, hopefully that fop had managed to make himself useful and guard her from these lewd beasts.

It was just as that Pertion was become to 'close' to my Christine for me to be comfortable that, Le Viscount finally arrived in a ridiculous naval suit that made him look like a ten year old at an afternoon birthday party complete with pink jelly and biscuits. He nodded to Pertion and gently lead Christine away to the corner of the hall. I felt my anger rise as he took my angel's hand in his own, I never allowed myself such contact with her, why should he? I noticed neither of the pair had a ring on their finger's, at least there was hope then, I had been afraid that they'd organised a quick marriage and were now legally bound. Not that a small thing like marriage was going to prevent me getting what I wanted.

It was curious, that as Raoul lead her away, Christine looked neither happy nor pleased to see her beau. Just relieved that she no longer had Pertion peering down her gown. The band now began to play a jolly waltz and couples filled the floor, putting my star and the boy out of my sight. This allowed me to clear my mind and carry on with the plan, as I scrambled back to my post, in the rafters, above the staircase.

I had fitted most of my traps, including the one in the Grand Hall that I was currently using, a good many years ago when the opera house was being constructed. It was easy enough to do, after all the only thing I needed to do was alter those blueprints that the chief architects so carelessly left around, and those ignorant labourers did the rest. Architecture is another of my many skills, one that a mastered a good many years ago; but that's a different story.

Charles Garnier was a man that I respected greatly as an intellectual and a man of good character. He made a good job of the opera house, though it was, in my opinion, more than a little arrogant for him to have the place named after himself. The Grand Foyer was perhaps one of his best ideas, the mosaic covered ceiling was so very easy for me to modify it to suit my own uses. A little one way glass here and there allowed me to create a space where I could spy on everyone and see everything without any one seeing me. The perfect trick, and was suspected by no one.

The idea was that at the chosen moment I would release and the trap door and silently fall from the ceiling to the widest step, half way up the stair case. I would then, well I hadn't quite decided what I would do then, I was sure I'd think of something. But it was too late for that, the trap was set and all that remained for me to do was watch and wait.

* * *

**authorette's note:** Yes I know, the opera house wasn't even completed in 1870 but just let me alter this one itsy bitsy detail and the rest will be totally accurate! Promise! One last request: **REVIEW!**


	4. His Blindness was Lifted

**Authorette's note**: Bonjour good readers, the story is back and with it comes the events of the masquerde …… **And yes, I am obviously mentally impaired as the masquerade is still on the 31st October, not the date mentioned in chapter the last…… **The managers mentioned in this chapter (Richard and Moncharmin) are the managers featured in the Leroux novel. Thanks again to my shiny reviewers and to all those shiny un-reviewing readers: Make a lonely old lady very happy, give her some flowers. But in the mean time give this sulky teenager's phic a review!

This chapter is dedicated to Jess, who listened to me ramble and read my rambling with out yawning once or making excuses to scurry off, as I would have been tempted to do in your position! Go you!

**His blindness was lifted…**

1870, October 31st

The dancing continued for what seemed like an eternity of sadistic mockery inflicted on me by some higher being. Pay back for what I did to Buquet perhaps? That was the only reason I could think of as to why I was forced to watch my Christine being held in the arms of that ignorant fool, whilst they gracefully spun across the floor, being admired and commented upon by other nobles that had attended the celebration. Though I could hardly say that all the comments that fell upon my ears were in favour of the couple in question.

For you see, Parisian high society is a strange thing. A man of good breeding may have as many mistresses as he pleases, all of poor background if that's what he should choose. This relationship, will of course be public knowledge, but so long as it is treated like a great secret, the man may continue his affair and remain with his good reputation intact. However, should a man have a good, morale, legally binding, relationship with a girl of a lesser background than himself, out would come those sharpened claws of Parisian socialites, ready to rip the man and his wife to shreds. This is why it surprised me that Raoul had allowed himself to be seen so publicly with a mere ex-chorus girl. But then on the other hand, they didn't appear to even be engaged, so perhaps he would only be slightly cut, rather than brutally stabbed by those gossip lover's blades.

At last, everything had fallen into place. Carlotta was at the foot of the steps on the right hand side, with her hands wrapped around Piangi's fat neck, reminding me of a picture I had seen, depicting a boa constrictor strangling it's prey. Funny, I heard that she'd once been such a dainty, pretty little thing with all the grace of a swan and the charm of a geisha. I half heartedly wondered if, left as a diva, Christine would become as irritable. As for Piangi, well he was a paid tenor, one would never expect him to be as skeletal as I surely! On the left hand side of the stair case, there was those two inept dunces who happened to run my theatre; Mousiers Richard and Moncahrmin, who were waltzing with some reasonably attractive chorus girls who were most certainly not their wives. Not that this was any concern of mine, all that mattered was these all stayed by the staircase.

Finally Christine came spinning in that debonair's almost lady-like arms. The sight made me feel overwhelmingly sick, but I suppressed the feeling, for it was time for the plan to take shape. I stood as upright as I could, straightened my suit and adjusted my cloak. I then silently released the trap door, and putting my acrobatic skills into practise, landed on my feet, as gracefully and perfectly as a feline.

People can be so wrapped up in their own, insignificant affairs that they are unable to notice what occurrences are taking place around them. At the time when I had resigned my post as travelling corpse and had to make my own way in life, I quickly discovered this, and made a good deal of money in the form stolen wallets from it too. However, I have changed a lot since those days of petty theft and despise being ignored when I seek attention; so you can imagine how vexed I was when it took more than the fewer moments I had expected for the entire attention of the ballroom to be turned onto me.

Finally all the eyes in the room where fixed firmly upon my carefully concealed face and I felt a sudden pang of nerves run through me. There was a time when I was accustomed to strangers gawping at me every night, laughing like lunatics, spitting and snarling like feral dogs, **_him, _**that evil bastard smirking as though the tavern was giving away free bottles of gin… The room seemed to swirl and I wanted to run and hide back in the safety and solitude of my underground lair, away from all these starring faces. But something stopped me, a new though came to my mind. For I realised that I was no longer the attraction, they were. Yes, I was the master now and they performed for me, they did as I pleased, they were mine to smirk and laugh at. Certainly not the other way around. I felt a soft smile spread across my disgusting face and I slowly descended the grand staircase, whilst my magnificent voice filled the hall, powerful and dominating.

"Fondest greeting good Mousiers, Madams and indeed Mamouselles, and may I bid you a warm welcome to my opera house and thank you for attending my little soiree!" I now paused for effect and stood still, my back perfectly straight and a welcoming smile upon my face, though no one could possibly see that.. I stole a brief glance at the astonished expressions on the faces that surrounded me, but resisting the almost overpowering temptation to seek out my angel, for I knew if I saw her again, my mind would be lead me straight to her and my plan would fall to taters. Self control is one of the hardest things to conquer and I sometimes no trance of it could be found in my body. However on this occasion it was thankfully present, but had it not been, my life would still be a meaningless mess with no direction and no hope of escape.

I focused my eyes directly ahead and continued with my 'opening speech'. "It is an honour to have the pleasure of your company on this momentous occasion, and to mark the celebrations I have written you an opera." I directed this last remark to Richard and Moncharmin, with more than a hint of authority and a hiss of warning. I now produced my leather-bound score with the title 'Don Juan Triumphant' embossed on it, in gold italics. In the space where the composer's name is usually found was left empty, save an intricate still-life of a perfect rose, much like the ones I used to leave for my angel in her dressing room…

I tossed the score to Moncharmin's feet, ensuring that the throw wasn't powerful enough to damage my precious work. I took a step back and drew my sword victoriously, at the same time adding to my previous words, "Don Juan Triumphant!" I almost sang in my most dominating voice. I now placed my sword back in it's sheath and lowered my tone, until it became more melodic. "Consider this a gift, good Mousiers, and I have a few notes before rehearsals start."

I smiled again, and again drew my sword and allowed it to rest in my arm, by my side. Even if this plan failed, the petrified looks on all those faces would still see me through for a long while. Of course, my main points on how the opera was to me performed had been enclosed along with the work itself, but there were a few points I needed to make crystal clear first. I turned to that arrogant goose Carlotta, and started with the first. "Carlotta must be taught to act, not her usual trick of strutting round the stage!" As I said this I ruffled those terribly tacky feathers atop of her golden silk turban. The diva threw up her hands in alarm and let out a gasp of fear.

Her lover now pushed Carlotta back and stood in front of me, his chest puffed up and cheeks red with outrage, or was it wine? I smirked, Piangi, Piangi, if only you could see what a fool you resemble, I though to myself. I lifted my weapon and poked it's sharp point into the flabby fat of his bulging stomach. I didn't want to cause him any bodily harm, only scare him into submission. "Our Don Juan must lose some weight." I paused and added, "It's not healthy in a man of Piangi's age." That tenor's expression of pure fury, suppressed by my blade, was so humorous I nearly laughed out loud! But this feeling that quickly gone as I felt another wave of fear-filled nausea sweep over me, for now it was time for me to turn and face my angel.

I inhaled and in his most angelic tone sang softy, "As for Miss. Daae." I turned until I faced her, though I didn't allow myself to look directly at her. I was about 16 feet away from her, yet the mere thrill of standing on the same ground as her, made my knees tremble. I then, yet again, placed my sword in it's holdall, by my hip. I felt a air of sarcasm in the next few words I sang to my crowd, deliberating avoiding my angel's face. "No doubt she'll do her best, it's true; her voice is good though should she wish to excel, she has much still to learn if pride we let her return to me, her teacher, her teacher…" I began to mutter as I trailed off, for something had caught my eye.

I knew I should have resisted the urge to look at her, I knew I should have kept my eyes to myself and certainly not have let them wander so low… It was a curse I brought upon myself, the curse of sight. In a brilliant flash, the unrequited love that had sustained me and yet so badly blinded me for so long was gone and I was left starring at **_it_**. It. That horribly beautiful, slim, silver band with a diamond that could fund a war, placed in the middle of it. I was no longer blind, my sight had been restored and the truth was being reflected from those shiny prisms. 'My' Christine was no longer mine, and would soon be the legal property of another, but as I say, a small thing like marriage (or rather future marriage), would not going to prevent me from getting what I wanted…

**Authorette's note: **Rest assured that next chapter there'll be a 'cunning' plot twist and some good ol' action and drama! Until next time, 'So long so long - and thanks for all the reviews!'


	5. The Trap Door Opened

**Authorette's note: **It's chapter 5! WooHoo! Happy Advent everybody and thanks to everybody who's reviewed so far! This chapter is for Amy - who never fell asleep when I was boring her with POTO related ramblings, or any ramblings come to that!

* * *

1870, October 31st

Despite the pure, unadulterated rage that was running through my bones, I was still pulled towards my Christine in a way that I couldn't understand, I was drawn, like a despicable wasp to a beautiful spring flower. Without explanation for my actions, I began to walk down the steps until I was only two above her. I could almost feel the warmth that I assumed her skin had and taste the soft, sweet scent of her perfume. I had never had more physical contact with a woman than I had with Christine, and that was only in the form of an accidental brush of my gloved fingers against her own. Yet, as basic and momentary as that touch was, I craved it and had a most overpowering desire to gasp Christine's hand in my own and, and, I dared not ask myself ; for my cravings, (though like those of any man), seemed impossible to be even vaguely fulfilled.

I glanced upwards and saw the sorrowful, and almost, dare I say it, longing expression on my angel's most beautiful face. '_Longing_'? What on this earth was I saying? My mind had most probably grown unaccustomed to human expressions after my three months of self-imposed solitude, I assumed that I was beginning to confuse repulsion for innocent desire. Even so, Christine was slowly moving towards me in tiny, delicate steps, until we were but a few inches apart.

I noticed that her little viscount was no longer clinging to her side like a little puppy dog, and I felt a smirk on my despicable face at the thought that I had scared that pathetic excuse for a man into submission! But I paid this no more attention as my mind was, once again, drawn solely to Christine. I stared into those deep, oceanic pools that served as her eyes, and I felt like a diver at the edge of a cliff, filled with a compelling desire to leap and be immersed in the cool water below. However, like all divers, I knew that the descent to the ocean would be perilous. I might fall into a cluster of rocks or misplace my footing and be crushed against the cliff face, or even get my initial jump wrong, and be finished before I even begin to fall. I had to ensure that every part of my descent went to plan and couldn't allow the thrill of being so close to the edge pull me under. No, like a diver I had to maintain my calm and keep my head clear.

My impulses were demanding that I grab my angel's smooth, pale hand and pull her down through the trapdoor with me but that wouldn't be at all wise. Not only would the shock and fear shake Christine's poor little heart, but someone would be sure to follow us, not that this caused any worry to me; my Punjab lasso would see to it that our brave little hero was soon dealt with. But this was a most public event, if I took Christine now, Paris would be full of news about it tomorrow. I could fool some bumbling upper-class eccentrics and illiterate, drunken gaffers, but could I fool Paris, or even the whole of France? The Chagnys would see to it that the army and police would be after me and with my hardly ordinary face, it would be virtually impossible to sneak out of the capital unnoticed. If I was ever going to take Christine for my own it would have to be in the quiet of night, without notice or the slightest suspicion. Well, I suppose I'd seen to it that such an eventuality was now highly unlikely too.

I swallowed and noticed a change of expression of my angel's face. Her eyes seemed so, so sorrowful and pitying, yes pitying. I felt my anger rise once more. Pity? Pity my dear Christine, it's a little late for that, do you not think? My mind raged, you, **you, **ripped off my mask, tearing my last scrap of dignity from me as you did so. **You **cowered from me in fear, **you** ran away from me, tearing your way up to your dressing room. **You** demanded that your room be changed so that you need never see me again. **You** informed your precious viscount of my horrid existence, and let him claim your lips and take your heart. **You **denied me all that you could have done. Yet, you have the audacity to descend down from the heavenly cloud that I allowed you to reach, and show me pity, such as a queen shows a stray dog!

My heart pounded in anger; no, no more my dear will I be deceived into treating you like a princess, a goddess, an angel. For I have seen what you really are. You are as cold and cruel as the hell that you condemned me too. You are a spider, a majestic spider, whose beautiful web I, a disgusting fly have become ensnared in. No more, will I forgive you and treat you like a precious china doll, who must be protected from me. These were the thoughts that swirled through my mind and in a moment, my heart was hardened. I grabbed for the gold chain that hung so softly, yet so heartlessly around her neck and yanked it, causing the chain to snap in two and fall to the floor between us. A gasp rose up from the crowd and tears gushed to the surface of Christine's eyes. But I cared not. Instead I turned and ran to my original point on the stairs and released the trapdoors. I then fell down into the safety of my underground realm, smoke dancing above me on the grand staircase.

I ripped off my mask and flung it to the stone floor, stamping on it with my foot. I shouted words that I didn't know that I even knew, I waved my arms in the air like a lunatic and allowed burning tears of hate and fury to pour down my face. I spat out in a rage the deepest, darkest lie that my mouth has ever spoken, in the hope that I could convince myself to believe it.

"I hate you Christine Daae. I wish you were as dead as your heart is. I condemn you to the hell you imposed on me. I hate you!"

The words poured out and then dissolved into that terrible silence that perpetually surrounded me. But another sound could be heard in the silence. Faint gasps of breath were coming from behind me and I knew that I was not alone.

I drew my sword and spun around, lunging into the spot of darkness where I could make out a human shape. Shouting a nonexistent word of fury, that seemed to mingle with this piercing shrill scream that filled the stale air. I retracted my sword, and made a grab for the figure's wrist as it tried to escape me. A wrist, something so smooth, soft and gentle. The mere though that I was holding the wrist of another human being sent a wave of thrill through me, but the realisation that this joint belonged to Christine was almost too much to bear. I held it as tight as I could in my left hand, and with my right I dropped my weapon and raised my gloved fingers, to stroke my angel's hand, savouring the new sensation of human contact.

Her fingers was so delicate, and so perfect. They felt as wonderful as I dreamt they would, and better. I loosened my grip on her wrist and gently, though forcefully lifted her hand to my shoulder and place her hand onto the base of my neck, relishing the touch. I shut my eyes and sighed in satisfaction, for a second my heart was calm and I had forgiven Christine all the wrongs that she'd done me. After all, she was touching me! Admittedly, my suit acted as a barrier between us, but still, no woman, ever, not even my own mother, had touched me in such a kindly way before. My heart sang, but then it sank for a whimper of fright exuded from my angel's mouth. It then realised that she wasn't shivering out of cold, but out of fear. I scared her, she was frightened by me. She, she hated me?

I sank my nails into her creamy skin, ignoring the yelp that Christine gave as I did so. "Really Christine, you can do better than that!" I spat menacingly. "Why yelp when you can scream? Yes my dear little thing, scream why don't you? Use that filthy little voice of yours and scream for help! Don't just stand there quivering, try and run, yes flee Christine, flee!"

I suddenly released her hand and flung Christine backwards, causing her to fall to the hard floor with a bump. I felt a twinge of pain in my heart, but ignored it.

"Please," I heard Christine whisper. "Please Erik."

I scoffed, "Erik? Ah yes Erik; that would be my name now wouldn't it? Not that you care, monster, is that what you think I should be called? Freak perhaps? Demon even? No Christine, don't be so very shy, tell me what do you want to call me?" I shouted the last few words with such contempt that I could sense the words lashing my angel like a whip, and there was silence.

"Well," I raged. "What do you want to call me?"

I heard a sob and a faint mutter, "A, ang, angel?", it uttered uncertainly.

I felt my temper rise. 'Angel'? What kind of an imbecile did she take me for? Did she think that a sweet word would melt my devilish heart and I'd sing her a little song and take her back to the arms of that, that _fop_?

"Oh my little Christine, do you really think that I am that besotted with you that a little lie and flutter of your eyelashes will make it all better between you and I?", I glared as I stood by her feet, her pink satin shoes now ruined with damp. Christine now began to sob, violent bursts of tears came gushing down her face and stained her cheeks, but my heart remained firm,

"Why do you weep so very much? Really it's growing rather tiresome. Are you upset that your shoes are ruined? No? Well, you probably can't see - but they are!" , I hissed. "That's right _ruined_ Christine, they're all stained and spoilt! Shame for such new shoes to be ruined so quickly… But that's your fault, you chose to wear such dainty things, just like you chose to make me hate you. Yes, you made me my dear!" My face was now bright red and I could feel Christine's leg trembling underneath her dress, against my foot.

I now lowered my tone of voice so that it became caring and kind, I picked up my angel's left hand and softly held it in my own, caressing her knuckles, suppressing the urge to press them to my lips, for although I felt such immense hate for her, my heart burst with love for her too. "Please tell me, why are you shaking and crying so? Are you cold? Are you? If you are I will fetch you a blanket?" I asked, instantly regretting my last few words as I realised how insane they sounded.

There was silence once more, and then I heard her little voice, raw with tears and haggard from crying so much. "No, I'm not cold."

I signed in despair, "then why do you cry?" There was a long, uncomfortable pause and I then felt a tug on my hand, and realised that Christine was trying to lift herself off the ground, but in the darkness, not making a very good job of it. I extended my other hand and lightly supported her back, until Christine was directly standing in front of me, her eyes starring at the ground. Funny, I thought to myself, even in darkness she can't stand the thought of looking at my face.

At last, my reply came, amidst stutters and choking sobs. "I .. I.. I'm -" I never did discover the cause for those tears as in a typically shrinking - violet style, I felt her beautiful body collapse and fall breathlessly into my arms. Christine had fainted.

**Authorette's note:** That Christine, always lacking oxygen…..


	6. An Angelic Touch

**Authorette's note:** Happy Christmas everybody! Hope you enjoy the big day and what better present could you receive than a new chapter! What can I give in return to honour such a gift? I hear you ask, well it's simple; one review and I'll be the happiest girl on the net! Happy Christmas once more! This chapter is dedicated to Stephy, the bestest ever spell-checker, grammatical bitch and _licentious _word giver! You go girl!

**An Angelic Touch**

1870, November 1st

Untold hours had passed since Christine had fainted, and she was now peacefully lying on the gold _chaises-lounge_, situated in my study, a red velvet throw covering her perfect form. It was really quite amazing, the way she fell, quite perfectly into my arms. I recall standing there for a good few minutes, just standing utterly still, supporting Christine's knees with my right arm and her upper back with my left. I stared down at her face, and noticed the tears drying on her cheeks, making her thin layer of rouge drip down her face, causing my angel to resemble a porcelain doll that had been carelessly ruined.

Ruined by me.

I cursed my vile temper, my vile personality, my vile manner, my vile self. Only a monster such as I could have hurt an angel's weak heart so. Even after all that had happened, all the pain that Christine had caused me, I forgave her. I forgave her again and again in my head, as I stood there in that dark passageway, water steadily dripping on my head as it leaked from the floor above me. I now decided that I would take my sleeping angel back to my home, where I would allow her to rest and then… Well, that could all be decided nearer the time.

I wasn't entirely sure why I was even bothering to take her back with me; after all when she came to she'd probably just run up away screaming and shaking, as she had done before. The sensible thing to do would have been to return her to her dressing room for the boy to find her.

_But why should I?_ I thought to myself. Why should I sacrifice the few hours of pleasure that I would gain just by having Christine asleep in my house so that a frivolous dandy could hold her in his dainty arms for a little longer?

I picked my mask up from the floor, and after wiping it clean with my cloak, placed it back on my disgusting face, all the while tightly clutching Christine's body to my own, turning her face into my chest and trembling at the sensation. I then realised how terribly cold my angel must have been, and maybe still was. I could feel the chilled air nipping at my arms, and the garments that covered them were far weightier than those that warmed Christine. I quickly removed my cloak and wrapped it over her, as though she were a sleeping child.

But she was not a child; she was a grown girl, and a beautiful one at that; I reflected as I descended the crude stone stairs that led to my home, five storeys beneath the world and its mocking cruelties.

As I entered my home, I felt a feeling of relief fall over me; perhaps even a feeling of happiness. I remember recalling that the scene could almost resemble a groom returning home after his wedding, carrying his beautiful bride across the threshold. I smiled, and carried my 'bride's' body into the study, bypassing my bedroom; a coffin is no place for an angel to lie. I removed the paper that lay strewn across my _chaises-lounge_, one of my few remaining links to my poor unhappy mother, and softly placed Christine's body onto it, as if she were an antique vase.

I removed her sodden shoes, and replaced them with a pair of my warmest slippers. A shiver was sent up my spine as I touched the rosy balls of her feet and saw her slender ankles, as bare as could be, only a few inches from my lips. I noticed that her dress had ridden up, revealing all her skin below her knee. The sight of that expanse of creamy skin captured my every breath, and set my manly thoughts alight. I wondered if this was how Don Juan felt before he seduced his many women?

I will not lie, I had seen many a naked woman in my time at the opera house. In fact, one of my evening rituals was to observe the more mature ballerinas changing for their performances! Although this may sound perverted one must understand that I wasn't always an elderly man with waning eyesight and a shameful limp. Once I was a young man, a extraordinarily gifted young man, that despite his monstrous body and vile mind, had the thoughts, feeling and desires of any other man. Besides, I was most certainly not the only spectator of this private show. Many of the other workers used to find pleasure in gazing over those beautifully bare bodies as they passed from one outfit to another.

However, I had never had the heart to view Christine changing,; even though it would have been more than easy to do so, I simply could not. I sighed longingly as I admired her smooth skin; although I had seen a naked female form before I had never been close to one.

Licentious thoughts suddenly tumbled into my mind; I could…. If I wanted…. She would never know and then I would be…

No. No, I could never, never do such a thing. I felt even more repulsed by myself than usual for allowing such a thought into my mind. My daydream had gone too far; Christine was not my bride, she was my pupil. Yes, I had to think of her like that: a pupil. I tossed the throw that normally lay on the armchair across her body and I hastily left the study in favour of the drawing room, to maintain Christine's safety and keep my ever chaotic emotions under some form of control.

I decided that I ought to change my suit, since its trousers were ruined with damp and wet. As I selected a simple pair of black breeches, a clean shirt, brownish-gold waistcoat and matching cravat from my mahogany _armoire_, my gaze fell upon the red cloak that I had tossed on the floor. I remembered how it had covered my Christine's sumptuous body only a short while before, it's velvet fabric falling onto her form and hugging her curves. I lifted the cloak to my pitiful stump of a nose and inhaled the faint scent of Christine's perfume that it carried. Like a love-struck child, I swore that I would never wash that cloak again.

Once I had changed, carefully folded my cloak and placed it on the cushioned headrest of my coffin, I adjured to the kitchen, where I began to prepare a small bowl of chicken broth, in case my angel awakened hungry and didn't flee back to her viscount. It was just as I began to ladle the soup into the finest china bowl that I possessed that I heard a rustling noise coming from the study.

After checking that my mask was firmly set on my face, I dashed to my study and quietly opened the door to find Christine standing in the middle of the room, her eyes wide in bewilderment and fear. As I entered the room she spun around on her bare feet and upon seeing me, her whole body stiffened as she tried to appear calm and collected.

"Really, if you don't cover yourself adequately you will be bound to get a chill. Especially in that thin dress," I pointed out mildly as I gestured to the red throw that had been abandoned on the floor.

To my surprise Christine suddenly straightened her back and said in a forceful voice that I didn't think she possessed, "Monsieur, I do not know where I am, nor why you have brought me here, but I demand that you return me to my home."

I raised one of my nonexistent eyebrows; it was strange how in her last few words she'd been busy calling me her angel, trying to deceive me into returning her to Raoul, and now she was as cold with me as could be. I was right; she _had_ been trying to trick me. She didn't care an ounce for me, though I cared with all my repulsive heart for her.

"My, my Christine, I'm surprised that you haven't set about escaping back to the arms of your lover already. After all, it was him that you abandoned me for, was it not my dear?"

I observed Christine drop her eyes to the floor and begin to slowly wring her hands, something she'd done for as long as I'd known her when she was nervous. "Please, I did not come here for - I didn't even come her at all - you brought me, and I want you to take me home," she said, her voice shaking with her final words. I felt my temper rise once more and as the mind began to conquer a sharp reply, Christine spoke once more.

"Please. Please Erik, please just take me home. That's all I ask, please take me home." She uttered, tears welling up in her blue eyes. Her tears touched my heart and in a moment of thoughtlessness, I extended my bare, skeletal hand, and placed my fingertips lightly on her shoulder. At this gesture, Christine looked up at me with a strange emotion that I didn't recognise in her eyes, and she did as no other woman had dared to before: she took my hand and held it loosely in her own.

My heart sang a melody more beautiful than even I could produce, and for the first time in my life, I was happy, for I had not just been touched by a mere woman:

I had been touched by an angel.


	7. Unspeakable Truths were Spoken

**Authorette's Note: **Hello again my dear readers! I hope you all had a great Christmas and have a best year ever in 2006! Sorry Stephy for forgetting to run this by you, and I apologise to all my readers and ask that you find it in your hearts to forgive me any mistakes! One last thing: I am a psychopathic review hungary maniac. Review today and prevent me from screaming so loudly that all my windows shatters!

**Unspeakable Truths were Spoken **

1870, November 1st

I stood there. She stood there. We stood there, silence in the air and my heart pounding faster than it had in a very long time.

"Why is she doing this?" I asked myself searching for an answer in vain. How could she toy with my heart so easily? Just a few moments ago she had demanded that I return her home, and now. Where could I start?

Touch is a human right that occurs countless times each day for everyone. Whether it be a brief hand shake, an accidental bump or even a quick hug or peck on the cheek, touch is present in everybody's life; expect mine Until now.

Gradually, Christine tightened her grip on my hand and soon she was no longer just lightly grasping my fingertips, but tightly clamping my palm in between her slender fingers. I simply cannot describe how wonderful I felt as the warmth of her skin spread over to my eternally cold fist. The euphoria that I was filled with as Christine gently began to caress my long fingers with her thumb, was unearthly and I was lost as I floated on a cloud of bliss that took me miles away from my troubles.

I slowly opened my eyes and looked down at our joined hands, almost in disbelief. I turned my head upwards until our eyes met, and for a brief moment our eyes locked. I felt my mouth open and words spill out of it, completely unplanned and unchecked by my mind.

"Please Christine, please." I paused, it seemed that I, the infamous 'Phantom of the Opera', was begging.

"Please, just stay with me for one meal. One meal, I've already prepared it for you, it's chicken soup! You like that don't you? Please, please stay with me just for this one meal. Then I promise that I will do as you wish."

I gazed pleadingly into her eyes and wriggled my fingers so that I was gripping onto Christine's hand, and able to give it a slight squeeze. To think of it, I, a corpse was holding the hand of an angel!

Christine, who had averted her eyes to the floor, now lifted her face up to me and after a moment's pause gave me a nod and slowly slid her hand out of my grasp. Not that this bothered me, had she never come near me again, that one moment would have sustained my heart and love for her forever.

Silently and without contact, I lead my precious angel into the dining room where I pulled out a chair for her and placed her soup on the table in front of her. I sat opposite her and suddenly a shower of nerves came over me. I began to ponder the full meaning of my last words; had I promised that after this one meal I would let my love go forever? I had reason to believe that I had, but a promise was a promise and if this was to be our last meal together, I had to savour it.

However, there was a burning question on my mind, and after Christine had taken only a few sips of her soup, I allowed it to slip from my lips.

"Why did you follow me tonight?" I asked softly, yet forcefully.

I had to admit, it was a good question. After all, I left the hall on my own, Christine came after me of her own free will. It was her choice, unlike her previous visit, where I'd had to use a morphine soaked cloth to carry her down on my home on Cesar's back.

After a long silence, Christine placed her spoon beside her bowl, and swallowed. She was nervous again, and I noticed that her cheeks were flushed. Finally, with her head bowed, came a reply.

"I, I oh please Eri-"

"No, please Christine. I have never asked much of you. How can you deny me the answer to this one question when this is all I have ever wanted from you?" I said, far more angrily than I intended too.

Despite the common elements that Christine was surrounded by, she had always maintained a most aristocratic way of conducting herself. Of course, most people remembered their 'p's and q's', (as was seen decent by all levels of society), but Christine was as gentle and mild-mannered as a sister of charity. Never before had I heard her shout, rage or show the slightest signs of vexation other than a wrinkled brow. But it seems that there is indeed a first time for everything…

Suddenly Christine jerked up from the table, sending her chair flying backwards. Her face was bright red and her fists clenched.

"Never asked much of me? No that's correct, you never asked much of me - you demanded what you wanted and took what you couldn't! That's why you appeared at the Bal Masque tonight, that's why you abducted me from my dressing room, that's why you kill, and destroy, and ruin all that displeases you!" She yelled, her tongue forked and her words thrown at me with such spite as I'd never known her to have. How could she say such things to me after all that I'd done for her?

"Yes, yes my dear.. Yes yes… You would see only that would you not? I knew that you would forget all that I have done for you --"

"_All you've done for me_? What have you done for me? You have always made me feel guilty, that I owe you so very much. But I don't! You've never done anything that _helped_ me!"

Her words stung me like the lash of a whip, they bit me like feral dogs. They tore away at the protective layer I had sealed myself with and I didn't just feel anger any more, I felt pain. But not physical pain, a pain that throbbed in my heart and ate at my normally vacant soul. I found myself jumping off my chair, knocking over the table, and sending it to the floor with a bang as I did.

"Yes my dear… Yes, my angel…. Oh do you remember that? Your _angel of music_? After the story your father told you. That story… Remember all the tales I told you? Story after story… when you were sad and couldn't sleep who comforted you ? Little Meg? Her mother? Sorelli? Your _little play friend_? Oh no, who sung to you for hours on end? Who gave you all the chocolates… dresses…treats that you desired? Who… Oh but never mind, for now you don't want any of this… you want a lover… the one thing I can not be… that you'd _want _me to be."

I was out of breath, my face was probably red and tears were welling up in my throat. Yet I continued.

"I have never harmed you in any way - you understand. I have always treated you like some sort of queen - no, better. I could have done as I wished with you, five storeys underground, whatever I wanted… Yet I didn't even _touch _you, not even to offer you my finger tips! Even, even when I was not a monster, but your angel, the voice; did I ever hurt you in any way?"

I gasped for a breath, Christine turned away but this time I wasn't going to let her. I grabbed her arm and grasped it tight in my hand.

"You say that I demanded so much of you, but did I all? Did I ever demand anything of you that didn't help you? I was young too… I was only a young man… all I wanted was friend, but no, I became your teacher, your mentor, your guardian. Never for my own benefit, only yours. All I have ever done in this wretched place has been for you health, even if it was to my injury. Why? Because, oh my, because I love you."

With that I finally allowed my mouth to close, and tears began to trickle down my sunken cheeks. There was silence, thick, heavy silence. Suddenly, Christine's hand flew to her mouth and she ran out of the room, with out a clue where she was going. Tears streaming down her face, and sobs escaping her lips.

I waited in the dining room for a moment to compose myself, straighten my mask and wipe my brow, before I followed her to the unused guest bedroom I had prepared for her so very long ago. I expected her to be on my mother's bed, but instead she was curled up in ball on the floor; her head buried in her hands and her tiny body convulsing with sobs. Normally I could restrain my emotions, but the sight of my angel on the floor like an animal shocked me more deeply than anything had ever done before.

I ran to her and knelt down by her side, my hands instinctively rushing on her waist as I picked her up and placed on the bed. I removed her hands from her face and grasped her shoulders tight to stop her shaking so very violently. Finally, she was still and she looked at me, trying to find my eyes in the faint light. I brushed a hair back from her hot forehead, and as I did I felt a gentle, momentary touch on my arm.

"I'm sorry angel, I'm so very sorry." Christine stuttered.

I shook my head silently, I had endured many wrongs in my life and received not a single apology for any of them, so it shocked me to be asked for forgivness. There was no need for an angel, such as Christine to apologise to a dog like myself and I turned to tell her so when I was interrupted.

"I am a ungrateful creature, I was scared that is all my angel. You have done so very much for me and that's why, -" she paused.

"Oh my," she exclaimed sorrowfully as she sat up and placed her fingers on the palm of my hand.

"That is why it is so very hard to say this; you must make it your business, no ,no, you must make it your mission never to see me again. Not even to view me from the shadows as I know you do."

My heart stopped, what was she saying? Why did she wipe so many tears from her eyes?

"If, if you do **_both_** of our lives way very well be in danger." She said sharply, and she rose from the bed, smoothing her hair and scurrying out of the room.

"Now, in a few days time I am to leave the opera house - with Raoul, I suppose that you've guessed that we are to marry. But I will return for rehearsals, performances and all that. But I **_must _**keep myself to myself, and you **_must _**stay away from me."

She stopped and spun around so that she faced me, still sitting on the bed utterly dumbfounded and dismayed. I stuttered in shock and finally managed to find the calm to utter a question as I walked up to her.

"Why?"

Christine swallowed and bowed her head, "It's not my choice, please understand that. These things are out of my control, and yours for that matter." She added as she took off my slippers and offered them to me.

Slowly I outstretched my hand, and took the slippers. We stood opposite each other for a terribly long time, tears steadily, though silently running down her cheeks. I didn't know what to think, let alone what to say; other than the single word that escaped my lips once more;

"Why?"

At this Christine starred me straight in the eye and said in a strangely calm tone,

"For the sake of my safety, I must implore you to return me to the opera house, and in return I promise to tell you all that you need know. Please, do fetch my shoes - the sooner we may leave, the sooner - well." She looked into my eyes so pleadingly I thought my heart would break, so what could I do but as she said; and so I fetched those satin shoes.

**Authorette's note:** Thinking, 'hey I've already seen this!'? Well, you probably have, this is the new corrected version!


	8. An Interlude

**Authorette's note:** Just a short, 1917 Erik chapter. The next chap might be a while, but in the mean time please review! Thanks Stephy in advance!

**An Interlude**

1917, 27th June

After hours of writing and recalling, I finally drop my pen on my pile of papers, now covered in some of the events that shaped my life. I must have been at my desk for hours as the sun soaked sky is now a pleasant lilac, my angel's favourite colour. I look at the clock, eight o'clock. Exactly thirty-six hours since I found her lifeless form; her eternally warm body, finally cold.

That was really what hurt me the most, for I had never held my beautiful wife without experiencing the joy of feeling her warmth mingle with my cold. Yet, that last time that I held her, I encountered only a barrier of ice. Even her rosy lips were chilled.

But I can't write about that. For just the mere thought of her lifeless body seems to make the room spin and I lose my grip on all that is real and not. It's the most frightening feeling I have ever had, and with my angel I have had a good many; yet she always managed to see me through every problem and fear I had. However, the fact is my angel is not with me anymore.

The funeral, that will be the next thing.

I know that I can not remain shut away in my study, that come tomorrow I will be forced to face reality. However unpleasant it may be. Charlie will probably be sent up here first, and in his gentle manner he will try and coax me into coming downstairs. Then he will eventually make me start to go outside and visiting the funeral parlour. I'll have to make ever dwindling small talk with some sour faced undertaker, interested in my angel only for the fee that he will receive at the end of the sorry business. In fact, he will probably love the fact that she's dead, after all she wouldn't make him any money alive.

After a few sessions of small talk, I'll then have to start choosing the coffin and all that. I'll have to decide how my angel will meet her final rest, what clothes she'll be wearing and so on. There will be all that paraphernalia that comes with a funeral, the church service, the flowers, the guests, the gravestone; I don't even know what I am going to wear. But how can I? My word, what a morbid thought, deciding what clothes I am to wear as an angel is directed back to heaven. I'll have to get a new suit, or someone else will; I am not rushing out to some tailor before her delicate body is even in the ground.

Oh and how that thought disturbs me…. Her soft body, eternally beautiful and special; being tossed in the soil, surrounded by worms and insects eating away at the coffin until they reach her rotten corpse. Images rush to my head and I can cope no more, they are in my head showing… oh I can not bear it any more… Why don't they stop? Why isn't she still with me? I want her. I need her. Who can deprive me of her? She is mine.

I can hear a voice. A mocking, laughing, snickering voice. It's swimming in the room, it's everywhere. I can't grasp it, I try, I throw out my hands to catch it. But I can't, instead the voice keeps mocking me. It cackles and in a menacing tone states a simple truth, the most painful in the world;

"She isn't yours anymore."

I feel a burst of emotion in my heart, and with a gasp accompanied by a smothered scream of agony; I collapse on the floor, finally free of this whirlpool of hell that surrounds me. All be it until what seems to be the morning when I feel a pair of hands shaking my body and causing me to finally stir.

I look around and see that I'm lying on my sofa, Charlie supporting back and looking despairingly into my eyes. I try to swallow and compose myself, but this time I can not control my feelings. I pull away from Charlie's hands, bring my own to my wretched face and allow every tear in my body to flow. Not because my angel is dead, but because God has denied me the right to join her.

**Authorette's Note:** Now what to do? Ah yes, review!


End file.
